Also, that this type of story is so common - a woman who simply has nowhere to go, and very few financial resources, even if she has all the courage in the world. There can be huge barriers to just leaving. And the act of leaving can be the most dangerous time of all.

My Mum has worked as a Refuge volunteer for over thirty years in a pretty desperate part of the country. They - the volunteers - know these stories but of course they can't tell them. I'm pleased that somebody can.

Part of growing up for me was really wanting to understand how this could have happened. My mother is a very smart, strong woman. I think the most important thing to realise is that it's never bad all the time. Sometimes it's lovely - I hate to be clichéd, but I think Once Were Warriors did a good job of portraying that. And as Deborah says, it is very, very difficult to 'just leave'. You don't have to be weak or stupid or lazy to stay when it might mean losing your job and your home, shifting your kids' schools, avoiding your friends and family. You just have to be human.

Awesome. Makes me remember my wife hasn't seen her father since she was 9. She's one of 7 kids - he went on to have at least 6 more somewhere. The two families have never met as far as I know. I wonder if they & their mum had similar experiences. I kind of hope he's living sad & lonely somewhere.

You know what kills me, before I even get to the stories? The 'Hide My Visit' button. Of course, but also... god. That's horrible.

That got me too, Danielle, and the detailed instructions on how to clear your cache. It speaks volumes.

Makes me remember my wife hasn't seen her father since she was 9.

The last time I was home, my mum gave me a bunch of my stuff to take away. In among all the old photos was a birthday card I don't even remember receiving from my father, sent when he was living in Brisbane. There was some confusion about when it was sent, but the postmark told me he knew how old I was, but not what year it was. He asked for a photo of me - he hadn't seen me for about six years. And because it was a card for my fifteenth birthday, I know I didn't send it, and he died a couple of months later. Alone.

I sat there for about half an hour, holding that card, trying to work out how the fuck I felt about it.

My girls have been asking anxiously why I'm crying.

I'm planning to get my shit back together some time before my kids get home from school.

Well that ripped my heart out of chest, dowsed it in kerosine, grilled it for a couple of eons, slapped it between two folic acid laced buns and Federer served it back into the tiny compartment from whence it was issued. I'm staggered that the Womens refuge isn't already fully funded by the Government.